


Equal and Opposite

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Shameless Smut, Smut, This is so silly I can't even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's simple, really: Harry and Zayn like to have sex. A lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equal and Opposite

The best thing about hooking up with Zayn, Harry reflected, was the sex. That was all there was, really: no emotional bullshit, just fucking.

On a related note, there was also the fact that Zayn was dead fucking sexy. And, well, obviously Zayn liked what he saw; Harry had to admit that they made quite a fit pair. So they fucked like rabbits, to be frank, whenever and wherever possible.

Recently Harry had found himself with a rather problematic erection in the middle of a televised interview, his mind involuntarily wandering to the thorough going-over he had received from Zayn just beforehand in the nondescript green room toilet. He had been pinned against the wall face-first, rendered all but immobile by tight jeans hastily shoved down around his ankles, shirt lying forgotten on the spotless tile floor.

Zayn’s firm hands grasped his shoulders; his delectable tongue traced Harry’s jawline, then elicited shivers along his spine as it moved tantalizingly lower until Harry was begging for it.

“Just fuck me already,” he rasped, more desperately than he had intended. But there was nothing for it; Zayn knew he was calling the shots, and wasn’t ready to relinquish his hold quite so easily.

“Say my name,” he whispered, lips grazing Harry’s ear ever so lightly.

“Zayn,” Harry intoned, his voice rich and low, feeling Zayn stiffen against him like he had uttered a magic word.

He repeated the name many times in rapid succession—along with the occasional, necessary “Fuck!”—as every nerve ending in his body seemed to light up with aching pleasure.

* * *

 

It took a sharp, sneaky jab to the ribs from Liam for Harry to realize that he had been asked a question. The host, a blandly pretty blonde interchangeable with a thousand others, stared at him expectantly from behind horn-rimmed glasses that didn’t quite suit her.

“Sorry,” he said, flashing a dimpled grin, “what was that?”

“She wants to know if you’ve got a girlfriend,” Louis piped up helpfully. The girls in the audience tittered, naturally, his every remark received as a punch line.

Normally Harry would have shot something back, played it for laughs, but this time he was rather anxious to turn the spotlight away from himself and his glaringly obvious…situation.  

“Oh no,” he said. “Single.” Which was basically true — hotel one-offs and Zayn notwithstanding — but unfortunately drew a new round of interest.

“Really?” the host replied, raising her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “Well now, I guess I’ll go with the obvious follow-up. So Harry, what are you looking for in a girlfriend?”

“Well,” he said, pausing momentarily to rifle through his mental catalogue of rote answers to the hackneyed question, “I suppose I’m just looking for someone who knows what she wants.”

The girls ate that up, as did the host; Harry risked a sidelong glance at Zayn, who was sitting on Liam’s opposite side. But Zayn stared ahead stoically, and if he made any sign of acknowledgement it was too subtle for Harry to recognize.

* * *

 

Zayn wasn’t always one for subtlety, though. On one memorable occasion there had been two cars waiting to transport the band from a venue, and he and Harry — completely unintentionally —wound up in a separate vehicle from the others.

Harry knew Zayn was hungry for it the moment he saw the look in his eyes: they smoldered with an urgent intensity, an insatiable lust. Neither boy spoke; Zayn simply unzipped Harry’s fly and leaned over.

The car windows were heavily tinted, but that did little to deter the frenzied crowd. Initially the whole scenario made Harry uncomfortable, but then Zayn really got going —the things that boy could do with his tongue, for fuck’s sake — and Harry found that his acute awareness of the proximity of thousands of fans, the surreal public-yet-private nature of the moment, only amplified the experience. He came quickly, with toe-curling force that made him feel emptied out in the best possible way.

Zayn sat up nonchalantly, sated for the moment. If anyone in the hysterical mob happened to notice two figures outlined in the car window where there had only been one before, well, let them conclude whatever they liked.

* * *

 

Of course, at the beginning, like at the very beginning, Harry never would have imagined he’d end up letting Zayn fuck him silly on a regular basis. Mainly because Zayn always seemed slightly aloof, too wrapped up in his own mystique to pay anything else much mind.

But the inescapable fact remained, if a club was formed exclusively for people who exuded raw, unbridled sexuality, Zayn would be head of it. Most people latched onto it right away, but even if you weren’t paying attention — or, as in Harry’s case, trying not to pay attention — if you spent enough time around him it permeated you regardless. And once you reached the point of saturation, you were a goner.

Or so Harry’s theory went. He had been determined not to make the first move, but something in the way Zayn carried himself prevented Harry from forming the same easy rapport he had with the others. They were two planets in parallel orbit, only Harry still couldn’t figure out exactly what it was they were orbiting.

“Do you guys ever fight about who’s the biggest heartthrob?” a radio interviewer asked once, clearly pleased with her own brazen cheekiness.

Louis jumped on the question, true to form. “Yeah, all the time,” he said with an impish grin. “Harry and Zayn have it out daily, to be honest.”

Across the stuffy booth, the two locked eyes. Which was still a rare enough occurrence that it sent a thrill straight to Harry’s core. However, he also recognized that Louis had thrown Zayn in out of his depth; if the answer was left to him, the light, carefully cultivated banter would falter.

So it was up to Harry, who somehow always managed to find a fitting response. “Well, that’s just not true,” he said flippantly. “Obviously Zayn is much, much sexier than I am.”

And the interview was back on track, moving along as breezily as before. Because it was radio, Harry risked another glance at Zayn, who, much to his surprise, was staring right back. It was like an invisible barrier had shattered, despite the fact that Harry hadn’t even been thinking about making a move, despite the fact that he had expressed similar sentiments about his other bandmates on hundreds of occasions.  There they were, on the same plane of existence, occupying the same reality at last.

Still, it was a slow progression; the main problem being that Harry wasn’t even sure what he wanted, and Zayn didn’t seem all that eager to make his intentions known. If he even had any intentions, which was by no means a certainty. Sure, there was the occasional lingering touch here, the tantalizingly lewd comment there, but nothing that couldn’t be waved off as a joke or platonic affection.

Harry became more forthcoming with his flirtation — no point in playing coy now, just call it what it was —which evidently freed Zayn up to do the same. It was thrilling in a way that Harry couldn’t put into words. More than anything it was the novelty, he supposed; after all that time, finally being able to say exactly what he was thinking. To make a pre-show joke in a cramped dressing room, for example, as Zayn bent down to tie his immaculate trainers. “Zayn, as long as you’re down there, would you mind just sucking me off?”

And to have Zayn reply, “Not at all,” with unprecedented flippancy, and then, “but you’ve got to at least give me a handy in return. “

The question of how far they could take it wasn’t answered on that occasion. The other lads got a laugh out of Zayn’s quip, and that was the end of that. There was no need to continue anyway; Harry had learned to read Zayn’s eyes like a book, and the lust he saw there was an exact reflection of the sensation that was causing his own trousers to suddenly tighten.

Which was becoming a more and more common problem, a constant, frustrating inconvenience. Harry relieved himself four or five times a day, always thinking of Zayn.

He tried not thinking of Zayn, as an experiment, but that proved far too much mental effort for a wank session, so he succumbed to the inevitable. Zayn it was. Zayn stroking him, Zayn tracing the contours of his chest and hips and arse, Zayn coming inside him.

And so on.

* * *

 

It was in the States that the situation finally came to a head, so to speak. Being in America felt like a surreal dream within a dream — mind-boggling sci-fi nonsense, but there was no other way to describe it. The weight of reality seemed to have gone missing; they were all just kids on a playground.

This being the case, Harry was not initially certain he hadn’t just imagined it, Zayn sidling up alongside him in the middle of stage blocking and whispering-slash-growling, “I am gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

It was the squeezing of his arse for emphasis afterward that convinced Harry of what had happened. He made it through the end of the recorded track, mindlessly walking through the choreographer’s instructions, and then excused himself for an urgent trip to the loo. A backstage arena corridor had never seemed longer, or the sight of a dressing room door so welcome.

He unzipped feverishly; a few decisive, well-practiced movements and he was on the very edge.

And then the door opened, and in walked Zayn.

“Fuck,” was Harry’s response as he instinctively pulled up his pants.

“Oh, shit,” said Zayn, his gleeful shock an equal and opposite reaction to Harry’s mortification. “Is this what you’ve been sneaking off for, then?”

Harry didn’t see any point in denying it, circumstances being what they were. “Yeah.”

“Shit,” Zayn said again. “The lads were very concerned that you’d developed some sort of urinary infection.”

“What?” was all Harry could think to say.

Zayn nodded. “Yeah, we looked up your symptoms. Decided you should probably drink more cranberry juice and stop wearing your trousers so tight. But seeing as it’s just that,” he continued, nodding toward Harry’s crotch, “maybe I could help you out instead.”

He pushed the door shut decisively, and even had the presence of mind to turn the lock. Which was the last thing Harry noticed that didn’t involve him and Zayn crashing together recklessly, frantically, insistently. When they kissed it was familiar but also brand new: no teasing now, only raw, hungry lust.

Harry began to pull off his t-shirt but couldn’t manage it fast enough, fumbling with the simplest motions. So Zayn lent a hand and then began working his way down Harry’s torso, coaxing urgent desire out of him with his lips and tongue and fingertips.

He slid Harry’s pants back down and began to kneel, but that wasn’t what Harry had in mind so he grabbed Zayn and pulled him back up — breathing heavily, ignoring the mad pounding in his chest — kissed him voraciously with hands clasped at the back of his neck, and then turned around.

Unable to see Zayn’s reaction, he didn’t have to wait long to hear it.

“I haven’t got-”  Zayn started to say.

Harry preempted the discussion, retrieving the desired item from a pocket of his trousers, along with a condom. It wasn’t his first time but it had been a while; he relished the potent, painful awakening as Zayn made liberal use of the lube. He could tell Zayn was trying to take his time, but the fact that he was just as eager for release as Harry was made it a lost cause.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry groaned, feeling filled to the point of splitting open. “Move, you bastard.”

Zayn obliged and began to thrust powerfully and rapidly. Harry braced himself against the whitewashed brick wall, grimacing with pleasure.

“Come on,” he goaded. And then Zayn hit the sweet spot, and hit it again, and he couldn’t really speak at all.

Zayn only lasted another moment, releasing with a strangled cry of joy. Harry only let him bask briefly in the afterglow before guiding his hand around to his own still-primed cock. A couple of firm strokes from Zayn and a well-timed nip of the earlobe and Harry was coming with a gasp of his own, legs quavering as he struggled to remain standing.

But he immediately regained his composure and spun back around, pushing sweat-drenched hair up off his forehead. Zayn, looking remarkably put-together for someone who had just come so entirely undone, regarded Harry with mild disbelief and a tight-lipped smirk.

“What?” Harry asked.

Zayn shook his head, hesitated for a moment, and then pulled Harry to him and placed a brief, forceful kiss directly on his mouth.

“This,” he said, the hunger for more already glimmering in his eye, “is going to be fun.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hoooo boy. First foray into 1D fandom to be honest, really just looking for some positive reinforcement here. :) Thanks much!


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